


Something We Must Learn

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: BAMF!Fenris, Battle, Falling In Love, Hawke Can't Go A Day Without Getting Into A Fight, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Act I, Pre-Act II, Quibbling, Worried!Fenris, protective!Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 18:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8295793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Fenris keeps noticing how Azzan puts everyone’s health before his own. When a battle goes poorly and Azzan does it again, Fenris has to put his foot down – despite how much he hates mage selfishness.





	

Fenris hated magic. The power of it, the ease of it. No training, and a single man could wipe out a contingent of enemies, could turn into a monster and raze an entire village to the ground. Minimal training, and the person could do the same, except there would be no demon inside them.

From the moment he’d met Hawke, he’d been struck by the twin knowledge of the man’s innate power and his choice to use it predominantly to heal. While Hawke could take on the battalions of enemies he found himself against on his own, he chose to rely on others and focus on helping them. It was something he hadn’t understood at the time, something he admittedly still got confused over. But he’d learned to accept that, if nothing else, Hawke wanted to use what he’d been born with to help others. As dangerous as he was, he tried to control it. It was admirable, if disconcerting.

But Hawke was also a mortal, and he had the habit of being a fool. And Fenris was about to lose his temper about it.

For once, Hawke wasn’t on a quest to save Kirkwall from itself; they were all going to meet at the tavern for a nice night out. Not that Azzan would be getting drunk with him and Varric and Isabela. The man was always very careful with his alcohol. When asked, he merely said he didn’t want to deal with the hangover in the morning. Fenris wondered if it wasn’t because the man had slight control issues; he seemed to always need to have himself in order. Or perhaps it was because of his magic, his fear that he might lose himself? If that was the case, then Fenris would let the man stay sober for the rest of his life.

Since Varric and Isabela both seemed to live at the tavern, only Hawke and himself needed to actually arrive. Hawke had taken it upon himself to come to Fenris’ door, which had managed to get Fenris’ ire faster than he would have expected. It may have been a show of chivalry, but didn’t men usually only do that for women?

But to Hawke, it hadn’t seemed like much of anything at all. The man had just knocked on his door, stepped aside, and moved to follow Fenris as he left his porch and headed toward Lowtown. Hawke’s home, now situated in Hightown just down the street from Fenris’ stolen mansion, was closer; it would have been easier for Fenris to meet with the man instead. If the thought had even occurred to the human, he didn’t show it.

Hawke, unlike his friends, never seemed to find it necessary to speak, either. He let the silences speak for him, to tell of contentment or query or fury. When he spoke, he tended to do so only as much as necessary. Because of that, people often found themselves listening, even despite themselves.

He still wasn’t quite certain how to handle a man who focused more on helping others than helping himself. Even his desire to regain his family’s fortune always seemed to boil down to it being what his mother wanted. He never brought up his own desire for money or power. Not to say he didn’t have such desires – but if he did, Fenris never caught the slightest sign. Which of course begged the question: just what _did_ Hawke want?

He looked at the man as they came abreast of Lowtown’s main steps. He could ask. Though already he could imagine the man’s confused look, his gaze spanning out to nothing as he contemplated the question. It would be something ridiculous or trite. Fenris would snort. Hawke was abase. And they would continue as if nothing had been said – for indeed, nothing would have been told.

For a man so willing to give of his time and his safety, he was not one to reveal himself.

They took nearly five more steps before a group of thieves slid from their places against the walls. Hawke sighed and pulled out his staff. Fenris unsheathed his own sword and stepped slightly in front of Hawke. “This isn’t a fight you want to start,” Hawke said. As he always did. The man always tried to give his enemies a second chance.

“Men!” one of the thieves said, raising their hand. Their dagger glinted in the moonlight. “Attack!”

“Come at me,” Fenris said, calling the man’s attention to him. The others took one look at his sword and charged. “If you dare.”

They dared.

As always, Hawke crept slightly closer to him, despite his being a mage. Fenris felt the usual wave of cool warmth flutter in his chest, the feel of Hawke’s healing magic sweeping around him. Three thieves converged in a quick pincer move, only to be stopped in place by Hawke’s magic. Fenris snarled and swept his sword in one long arc, cutting the men through before chasing after their leader, the man trying to hide in the shadows. No doubt to move around Fenris and attack Hawke. Peripherally, he was aware of two more men coming for Hawke’s head. They managed to get within striking distance, only to be blasted back. And then Azzan made his way back to Fenris, despite him still feeling the human’s magic beneath his skin even from a distance. Fenris gritted his teeth.

Hawke could use his staff to shoot small, short bursts of magic. Despite having the knowledge to manipulate storms, the man rarely used the ability. Fenris leaped onto the leader, slammed his sword into the ground as the man dodged. He fed on his markings, let the lyrium pour through him, let it set his veins aflame. He gripped his sword tight and swung once more, catching the leader on his side. The man stumbled back, clutching his new wound, his eyes flashing. The man threw a smoke pellet at his feet and disappeared.

Fenris snarled. “Face me, coward!” he shouted, and went after the man’s minions.

Somehow, despite not using a great amount of offensive magic, Hawke had taken down two of the remaining four and had kept back the other two with only a single scrape on his upper arm. He’d even backed them up to one stucco wall. Fenris took down a third before their leader returned. Fenris saw the man slip from the shadows of the wall beside him and pushed back, raising his arm. The armor deflected the worst of the attack, skimming the blade in a show of sparks before sinking into the space between chest and shoulder, ricocheting off his collarbone. He little more than gasped before he felt that cool warmth rush through him, and the wound that had just opened once more closed. Used to it by now, he snapped his hilt into the thief’s face as he stared in shock. By the time he recovered, Fenris’ blade was in his chest. He pulled it loose and turned to the last enemy, only to see him blasted into the wall. Fenris finished the man off and turned to Hawke. A few more scratches covered his arms and chest, ripped his shirt into enough pieces that he would need to go bare or beg one off of Varric.

Fenris cleaned his blade and moved to Hawke’s side. The man healed himself as Fenris came close. Something close to anger bubbled in him again. He pushed it back, as always, his mind at war with itself once more. He had to take several deep breaths, however, before he could control his voice. “Shall we, then?”

Hawke smiled. And as always, that very smile washed the thoughts momentarily from Fenris’ mind. He found himself staring at the man as he led them to the bar. His long back, straight despite how meek he sometimes seemed. That cool warmth remained, the man clearly on high alert still, even with his staff returned to his back. The man made no sense.

Isabela and Varric awaited them in Varric’s personal room, both of them already well into their drinks. They waved them to the table and poured them in. Of course Varric demanded the story of how Hawke’s shirt had gotten into such a state before allowing the man to be draped in one of his own, and they bot went through the tired practice of explaining another random assault. Honestly, there was something about Hawke that attracted this kind of trouble. Even after leaving Lowtown, the man couldn’t leave his house without getting into a fight.

Varric said much the same thing, but there was something in the dwarf’s gaze that said he was also aware of the foolish way Hawke fought. It reminded Fenris, and made him angry all over again. And even angrier, as he realized he was worrying over the battle practices of a _mage_.

They were so far into their drinks after a few hours that it took him a moment to realize that Hawke’s attention had turned to something happening downstairs. It sounded like yet another bar fight, something far too common in Lowtown’s hangouts. But it was loud – too loud to be anything normal.

Fenris sighed. “You must be joking.”

“Wha?” Varric asked. He looked back and forth between Fenris and Hawke. Some horribly sly smirk crossed his face before he realized Hawke’s preoccupation. “Ohhh, no. No no no no. We don’ solve other people’s problems on our nights off.”

Hawke grimaced. The banging and crashing below got louder. Someone screamed. “If somebody’s up there, they better come down if they want to live!”

Varric sighed.

“Fight on?” Isabela asked.

“Yeah. Fight’s on.”

Azzan was first to his feet, and the steadiest. He helped brace Isabela as she stood, and a hot jolt of something slick and oily frissoned up his arms. He growled as he stood and swayed. “Not a single night of peace with you, Hawke.”

“This would have happened were I here tonight or not,” Hawke said, but otherwise let it go and waited for him to take the lead. The man had a way of making Fenris feel like a heel simply by existing.

Varric was surprisingly steady on his feet, as well, though it might honestly be because he had a more rounded bulk, with an equilibrium better than most. Or, he thought again, it could be because the man held the table as he walked.

“Why would anyone attack this hovel?” Fenris asked, grabbing his sword from its place beside his chair and moving as Hawke projected. The moment he did, he felt that cool summer wind against his soul.

“That,” Isabela said, “is a very good question.”

“Footsteps,” Hawke said. “Be ready.”

Varric burped and pulled out his crossbow. “We’re with you, Hawke.”

“You!” someone shouted, and Fenris stepped out of the room. The hall had little more space than Varric’s place, but it would keep him in front of his allies. Only one bandit had come to check the upper rooms. He felt Isabela brush his side, then the whoosh of wind as Varric shot an arrow into the single bandit’s foot. Fenris stabbed him through before the man could do more than stumble on his remaining foot.

“Isabela’s gone ahead,” Hawke said, his voice slightly breathless. Holding down his anger, then; Fenris had heard it enough times himself when first working with Hawke. The woman had a habit of messing up their teamwork, going out on her own to pursue an enemy without thought to her proximity – or lack thereof – with her allies. Fenris felt his own anger rise; countless times, he’d seen Hawke chase after her to heal her, leaving both of them vulnerable to attack. He knew Varric had spoken to her, and likely the guardswoman, as well. She still did it, however. Fenris would speak to her next, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

He moved forward, even as the shocked sounds of men below greeted his ears. He hurried, never leaving the patch of steady warmth, like receiving an eternal hug, that lived whenever Hawke chose to focus on healing.

He leaped down the stairs, keeping once more in front of his allies. Varric stayed up at the top of the stairs, but as usual, Hawke followed him like a lost puppy, hurrying down the stairs behind him, staff once more in hand. Isabela really had run ahead of them; she was busy fighting two bandits close to the door. The others had set up around the room. A few people were already dead, having likely attempted their own rebellions. Azzan stuck to Fenris’ side, at least, but his eyes tracked Isabela.

Fenris ground his teeth.

The men seemed clustered around the bartender, but didn’t seem interested in his money. What was likely a personal battle between the bandits and the owner of the club quickly became a contention between the bandits and them. As usual, Hawke focused his assistance on Fenris, keeping enemies away from him if they got too numerous and healing him when the bandits got too close.

But Fenris saw Hawke run forward once, saw him freeze three bandits in place that had managed to surround Isabela, felt a rush of warmth through himself at the same time he saw Isabela stand a bit straighter. He saw Hawke  stand right by his side despite being a mage, watched the man refuse to attack with his lightning despite having two men sweep their swords at his face. Fenris had to outright scream obscenities to get the men’s attention averted long enough for Hawke to finish them off. And when more of the bandits piled into the tavern – because there were _always_ more; _why_ were there always more in Kirkwall? – he found himself having to jump forward to save Isabela, the fool who had yet to return to their unit. And he watched Hawke follow after him. The only intelligent one in the group seemed to be Varric, who was happy to remain on the stairs.

Pain flashed along his side, up his arm, down his flank. He shoved a hand through a man before he could sink his death stroke into Isabela’s gut, then turned on the rest with a roar. Hawke stayed with him the whole time, despite them now being surrounded by enemies, the idiot mage blasting a few men back, but not enough to keep them away for long. He saw Hawke hunker down between himself and Isabela, but it was too late. The man was on the front lines when he should have stayed in the back with Varric. Fenris had to cut a swathe through the bandits to get close enough to Varric for Hawke’s healing to reach him, as well. He felt a long scrape against his ribs before he registered the pain. He gasped at it, at the sudden fire before he managed to sever the neck of the man who gave it to him.

But when he turned to Hawke to request help, he found the man surrounded. Isabela stabbed her daggers into one man’s back, but two more had Hawke backed against the wall. Hawke barely managed to paralyze them before he was completely overwhelmed.

Only five enemies remained, the other members of the tavern huddling to the sides or scraping past toward the exit, leaving them alone with the place in shambles and the bandits converging on them, the bartender trapped behind the counter momentarily forgotten. Varric shouted for help – help that none of them could afford to give.

He watched, wide-eyed and disbelieving, as Hawke turned to him and raised his staff.

The bright white burst of warmth blew across him, filled him from the inside out, just as an arrow slammed into Hawke’s chest. He fell.

“No!” Fenris cried. Something seemed to snap inside of him. He felt the lyrium heat him, burn him to smoke as Hawke hit the floor, that summer breeze disappearing so suddenly it left him momentarily stunned. He heard Isabela’s and Varric’s shouts for their fallen friend as Fenris turned on the men in his way, the ones blocking his access to the archer hiding in the back corner of the room.

Varric ran forward to engage that man, even as Fenris swept his sword, slashed down on one man and kicked back another. Even as he drove his left fist through a man’s chest and knocked back another, leading him into Isabela’s waiting daggers. “Go to him!” he ordered, moving before Isabela to engage the last two men. Thankfully, she didn’t hesitate to do as he ordered. “See if – help him.”

He couldn’t think. All that buzzed in his head was a white-hot rage. It burned blue on his skin, made every inch of him feel as if he were being dipped in liquid metal. His surroundings withered down to little more than the enemies in front of him and a haze of blue. He took more damage, making Hawke’s last move wasted – or necessary, perhaps, if Fenris wasn’t too furious to think it. He barely recognized when the last enemy fell, only realized where he was or what was happening when he felt his knees hit the wooden floor and his hands reached out for Azzan’s chest.

“I tried to give him a potion, but I had to force him to swallow,” Isabela said. Her hands remained steady, but her voice was so quiet he could barely hear it. A way to keep it from shaking.

“We need to get Blondie,” Varric said, hurrying to their side.

Anders. The mage had a place in Darktown. His heart thudded in his chest. The lyrium burst to life on his skin again as he wrapped his arms beneath Azzan’s legs and neck.

The man groaned. His eyelids fluttered.

“Hawke!” he said. The word slipped past his lips before he could stop it. He leaned close. “Heal yourself, you fool!”

A long exhalation, as if the man was venting the old air from his lungs. Then an inhale, loud, deep. Hawke’s fist clenched around his fallen staff, and then the familiar burst of warmth bloomed inside of him. Fenris shuddered, his body relaxing into the feeling as if _happy_ for the magic’s return. And then those deep ocean eyes opened.

Fenris let go of the man like he’d been set aflame.

Azzan winced as his head slammed against the wood. Isabela quickly raised his head back up, sending Fenris a glare as she did. He turned away, even more furious now than he’d been before.

With a hiss of breath, he felt the warmth escalate inside him. Saw the cuts on Varric’s chest and arms heal. Turned and saw a few of Azzan’s own wounds close up. And he suddenly found himself stomping back to the man’s side. “How foolish must you be?” he snapped. Azzan just stared at him with wide eyes. “You are a mage. Our healer! Your job is to stand back and guard yourself. What use are you up on the front lines? You said you have the power to revive people. To bring them back from the brink of death and heal their wounds. Was that a lie?”

Hawke blinked. “No?”

“Then stand back and revive us if we fall! If we fall, you can bring us back. But if you fall, we are on our own against countless numbers that would see us to our graves! As strong as we are, we need the assurance that we can heal when their numbers get too great.” He felt the anger burning, burning within him, the rage so great it consumed him. How dare Hawke make him admit he needed a mage’s help. How dare he need the man at all.

He rounded on Isabela. “And you. You have a team now. That means you don’t get to run off after your enemy. You aren’t dueling. Stick to the group or be left behind. Hawke chases after you like a fool, wanting to save you. The next time I see you leave, I will not let him follow. If you fall, you stay down.”

They all stared at him. As if he’d frozen them in place. He raised his chin and stalked away, intent on finding something – anything – to drink.

“You’re right.” Fenris heard from behind him, and stilled. He heard the rustling of Hawke’s clothes as the man stood. He couldn’t believe he had the urge to turn and ensure the human could stand on his own. “You’re right; I need to think more like a tactician. And I need to be a leader. You should never have needed to say that.”

He did turn then. Azzan’s cheek was scuffed with dirt. It was the stupidest thing for him to notice first, but it was. And then he found himself caught in the man’s gaze. He held his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said. “I’ll do better.”

His heart jumped.

The man was only admitting to the obvious – that he’d fouled up and put his teammates in jeopardy. There was no reason he should be rendered mute and dumb over such a thing.

Hawke stepped over the corpses of their enemies and headed toward the bar. For a moment, Fenris thought the man actually prepared to demand a drink, as if he were some male version of Isabela. Instead he leaned over the counter and looked down at the bartender. “Are you all right? What happened here tonight?”

The man looked up at Hawke with such a wide, adoring stare Fenris found another flush of tight, oily lead snap to heat in his gut. He marched over to Hawke’s side. The man’s gaze flickered to Fenris, and with a flash of fear, he looked away. Good. “I had one of their guys kicked out of here for messing with my sister. She’s only fourteen. But–”

“Do you know where their hangout is?” Hawke asked.

The man looked at him agape. “Y-Yes,” the bartender said. Fenris sighed. There went the rest of their evening.

Still, he found himself willingly staying by Hawke’s side, even as his head swam slightly. He would grab a drink of water before they headed out. “Get replacements for those two,” Fenris murmured before Hawke could do more than turn around. Isabela had done as Fenris had predicted, grabbing up the one jug on the one table still standing and glugging it down. Varric had his head rested against the wall by the stairs and had fallen into an impromptu nap.

“You should get some rest, too,” Hawke said, watching his friends for a moment before moving to Varric’s side. “You drank a bit, as well, and two fights in one day is more than enough.”

More went unsaid than that. Fenris knew Hawke was referencing their conversation, so long ago now. The one in which Hawke had told him he needn’t join the man in battle. The one in which he’d remained silent. The one where he’d let the man walk away from him without saying a word. “I intend to ensure you keep up your end of the bargain,” Fenris said, moving to Varric’s other side and helping Hawke lift him.

Hawke looked up at him and flashed him a bright smile. “All right, then.”

Fenris’ breath left him.

Oh.

Hawke was beautiful.


End file.
